Objection Overruled

Where nothing was illegal, and no one remembered why

Some mistakes don’t sneak in.
They land to applause, trailing smoke and promises, while someone hands out hats.

There once was a Star who couldn’t bear the silence.

He had once been watched — not for wisdom, but for the way he filled space.
Loud. Shiny. Always performing.
When the spotlight shifted, he dragged it back by hand.

And when the Nation paused — mid-repair, mid-reckoning — he was sent a Gift.

It looked like a jet, if jets were built for ego instead of air.
Gold trim. Velvet seats. Mirrored ceilings. A cockpit repurposed as a throne.
It hadn’t flown far, but it had been polished often — five years without a taker, waiting for someone who preferred mirrors to engines.

A note was taped to the door:
You’re welcome. The best there is. Everyone agrees.

The Management stepped forward — an indistinct shape in tailored wool, holding clipboards and speaking in plurals.

“This is an opportunity,” they said. “A win. You’ll want photos.”

The Constitution raised its hand.

“There are procedures,” it said. “Precedents. The Emoluments Clause, if anyone remembers.”

But the Star was already grinning, arms raised like he’d conjured the jet from pure inevitability.

“I’ve been on more jets than anyone,” he said. “The best jets. Ask anyone. And this one? Perfect.”

His advisors nodded before he finished.
“That’s exactly right,” said one.
“Historic,” said another.
“I almost cried,” whispered a third.

Each had been chosen for the ease with which they betrayed everything but him.

The Constitution tried again, gently.

“It hasn’t been inspected,” it said. “No shielding. No countermeasures. No real timeline.”

The Management smiled.
“We’re confident. And the optics are strong.”

They did not mind the distraction.
While cameras circled the Gift, they worked behind it —
stripping clauses, redrawing maps, folding laws into paper swans.

The gates were open. No one remembered closing them.

Schedules blurred.
Committees dissolved.
Departments folded in on themselves to make room for the entourage.

Inspectors were reassigned after asking “unhelpful” questions.
Budgets reallocated for pageantry.
One agency closed entirely, its files handed to the Office of Gratitude.

The Constitution stood at the back of the chamber, still raising its hand.

“This isn’t how decisions are meant to be made.”

“We’re on a tight timeline,” someone said. “We’ll loop you in next phase.”

The Star renamed the jet after himself.
He named a hallway after himself.
An aide suggested naming the sky.

Each week the interior changed:
Gold wallpaper embossed with catchphrases.
A mural of the Star shaking hands with himself.
A conference room built entirely of screens playing applause.

Some residents turned off their porch lights earlier now.
The night felt longer, though the clocks hadn’t changed.

Eventually, a technician opened the lower deck. Just to check.
He hesitated at the latch. Then turned the handle.

Inside:
Signal loops.
Microphones routed in circles.
A console labeled Emergency Broadcast: Read in Case of Criticism.
Every page autographed. None in ink.

The Management approved the message.
“It polls well,” they said.
And quietly, behind the curtain, they continued their work —
dismantling the last scaffolds of the great experiment —
one silent bolt at a time.

Outside, the Star was practicing his walk again.
He pointed at the sky, then at the jet, then back at himself.
No one responded.

But his aides clapped anyway.

In the back, the Constitution spoke once more.
It didn’t raise its voice.
It didn’t expect to be heard.